And I Ran
by lumiere42
Summary: When a couple of unexpected visitors show up at WKRP, Bailey must deal with some of her long-buried past.
1. A Terrible Suit Scale of One to Herb

He's tilted back in his chair, knees wedged up against the console, letting the last part of the last song of this morning show wash over him. It's the trick he's done since childhood: letting music build waves and colors in his mind's eye, a palette shifting with the sounds, kind of like the light shows they used to do at concerts back in California, but better. This song has weird watery shimmers in it, edged with purple. He would've wondered what the big deal was about MTV in comparison, if careful conversations in the L.A. days hadn't revealed that most people only saw things along with music when they were on something.

A rap on the booth window behind him startles him upright. It's Bailey, a sheaf of paper in one hand, looking a little ghostly - more like half a ghost, what with dark skirt fading into the background and white blouse not. She waves. He gives her a thumbs-up, and that's her cue to come in.

The song shimmers its way to the end and disappears in a little gold synthesizer burst, and he grabs the mike: "And that was A Flock of Seagulls with 'I Ran,' and with that, the Doctor is giving all of you a _prescription_ to RUN! Carpe that diem, fellow babies, seize that _day_ with all the seizing you got IN you! AWOO! And your very own Dr. Johnny Fever is gonna take some of his own medicine and run on out of here till tomorrow a.m. Stay tuned to the big WKRP for our 10-o-clock news spot, and then the ever-edifying Rex Erhart coming at you - after these words from our _lovely_ sponsors."

He slaps in the commercial tape. The Shady Hills guy starts drawling: "_Have you ever asked yourself this age-old question..._" before he can turn the volume down.

Bailey makes a face. "Herb still pushing those spots?"

"Ohhh yes."

"Kind of a comedown after your show."

He relinquishes the chair to her and starts putting on his coat. "Oh, I dunno. By now most people are settling into work and _feeling_ like one step away from death, so it might just be hitting the target market. Les's News Intro of Grandiose is cued up when you're ready. Should be in about five minutes. Four-and-a-half, once Mr. Shady Hills gets through telling the public about their golden years."

"Roger. What are you putting that on for? The heat okay in here?"

"Sure. Just, having it on reminds me of where my body is."

Bailey laughs a little. He ponders whether to tell her he's really not joking about that, but decides against it. She already knows he's crazy.

In a minor miracle, there's actually fresh coffee in the bullpen. Herb's not here - though his deskside mirror is unfolded, so he must have been checking it earlier, ergo he's out on a sales appointment - and Les's desk is unoccupied too, though strewn with teletype printouts. A rare and very weird moment of peace, then. Johnny sinks into the couch, mug in hand, eyes closing against his will.

Roughly one nanosecond later, the door opens in a burst of chatter.

Four guys: Les and Andy, and two strangers. One guy is older in the way that makes people call you _distinguished _instead of just _old._ On a Terrible Suit scale of one to Herb, about a five. Something vaguely familiar about his face. One younger guy, blond, trying a little too hard for the business casual look, a faint air of _they would've kicked you out of my school on sight, hippie_ smarminess. They both look a little bewildered, but that's probably because Les is chattering at them about current trends in hog futures.

"And _this_ is the bullpen," Andy breaks in, once Les stops to take a breath. "Everyone else who's not a DJ works back here. Sales, promotion, and news. Bailey's going on the air with the next news spot in a couple of minutes, actually. Oh, speaking of DJs, this is our morning man, er, Doctor - "

_Ah, hell_. Clearly these guys are important somehow, so he gets to his feet to shake hands. "Johnny Caravella."

"Frank Quarters," the older guy introduces himself.

"Quarters?"

"Bailey's my little girl."

"Oh." _'Little girl'? Oh, brother._ He looks over the guys' heads at Andy, who gives a little shrug.

"And this young fella is my nephew, Carl." The kid flashes a smile of at least 60 watts' worth of insincerity as he shakes hands.

"They're in town on consulting business," Andy explains, his drawl a tiny bit impatience-short. "Mr. Quarters here wanted to see where Bailey works, and talk to Mr. Carlson about some - services ...?"

"Computerized data storage!" Mr. Quarters' enthusiastic nodding looks weirdly like a bobblehead doll. "You may not believe it now, but it's the way of the future - and more affordable all the time." He looks over at Les, who's stacking folders behind his desk. "Why, Mr. - Messman, was it? - someday you'll be getting all your news reports from a computer. That teletype will make a nice paperweight!"

Les, glaring, starts to say something, but Andy cuts him off with: "Bailey should be on right about ... now," and turns up the speaker on the wall.

Bailey's News Reporter voice floats out, smooth like polished mahogany: "..._arms reduction negotiations with the Soviet Union continue today, as the president - _"

"Wow," Carl says. "She sounds so ... grown-up."

"Well, she _was_ really just a kid when you saw her last." Mr. Quarters turns to Andy. "She sounds really professional, Mr. Travis. I know Ohio State didn't do that for her, was that you?"

"Bailey did most of that herself, sir." Andy's still smiling, but it looks strained now. "Les coached her some, too."

"Really?" Mr. Quarters doesn't even try to hide the skepticism in his voice.

_I bet I'll regret this_, Johnny thinks, _but - _"He's the four-time winner of the Buckeye Newshawk Award. Some other stuff, too."

"That's _five_-time winner," Les corrects, without looking up.

The speaker crackles and fuzzes, then resumes: "_\- and for Les Nessman, this is Bailey Quarters saying good day, and may the good news be yours!_" Another quick static burst, and then the Red Wigglers jingle starts chirping away. Andy turns the speaker down at that, thank God.

"She subs for you, then, Mr. Messman?" Carl asks.

"Actually, she does two regular news spots every weekday," Andy says. "For the past several months."

Mr. Quarters shakes his head, but at least he's smiling. "When she went to major in journalism, I never thought it would work, y'know? I said, 'Honey, you have such a hard time even _talking_ to people, how are you ever supposed to interview anyone?' But if you're on the radio and you don't have to be face-to-face with someone, I suppose that makes sense."

"She _does_ some in-person interviewing - " Johnny starts explaining, right before the bullpen door opens.

"Oh, Andy, _there_ you are!" Bailey's grinning. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the Enigmatic Bagels concert promotion - " Then she stops short.

Johnny's reminded of the deer in the scrubby woods behind the trailer park where he'd grown up: how if you surprised one, it'd just freeze absolutely still, like it was trying to vanish by sheer mental power, but also watch you really intently. That's exactly what Bailey's doing.

A tick of silence, and then her voice, a little shaky: "Dad?"

"Bailey!" And Mr. Quarters goes over to hug her. "Honey, I just heard your newscast, and it was terrific!"

She extracts herself after a moment, a bit stiffly. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming to the station?"

"Well, you said we should meet up if I was going to be in town, and since you didn't give me _your _address, I just figured - "

Andy shoots a puzzled look at Johnny on hearing that, and he shrugs back.

"_Dad._" Bailey's voice is a little firmer now. "I said to call me ahead of time. You didn't have to come here."

"It worked out better, though. I made an appointment with your Mr. Carlson to talk about computerized data storage this morning. Fine fellow, seemed very interested."

"Hi, Bailey," Carl pipes up.

Bailey stares at him. "_Carl?_"

"In the flesh." Another cheesy smile.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"I got laid off from the place in Akron. Uncle Frank got his supervisor to hire me on for a bit, just a temp till that one lady consultant comes back from maternity leave. If she does, that is. You know a lot of them don't, so maybe it'll be permanent - "

"Really." Bailey's voice is very flat.

"So he's showing me the ropes. Jeez, Bailey, it's been _years_."

"Yeah. Um, look, Dad? We've got this upcoming concert promo to deal with, lots of marketing, it's complicated, so I don't actually have that much time to talk? Someone from the venue should be calling any second now. We've been trying to get in touch with them for days, can't miss it." Bailey's talking faster now, words starting to trip over each other the way they had back when she'd first been hired.

"Okay, sweetheart, I'll leave you to it. We can meet up for dinner later, huh? I'll call you here."

"Call the main office number." Bailey sits down at her desk and starts shuffling papers. "I'll probably be playing phone tag all day. You know how these things are!"

"Will do!" Mr. Quarters waves.

"Good luck with your, er, hogs, Mr. Messman," Carl says. Les just nods, the way he does when he's so annoyed that he doesn't have a polite response.

Andy shepherds them out, pausing just long enough for a brief, friendly tap on Bailey's shoulder before closing the bullpen door behind him.

"'_Messman_'?" Les glares at the door.

Bailey leans back in her chair. "Oh, don't worry about it, Les." Her voice has a false chirp of cheeriness in it. "That's just my dad. Must be losing his hearing as he gets older, because he _listens_ to people even _less_ than he ever did."

"Computerized data storage?" Johnny asks. "Does he know WKRP doesn't have the budget for that? Or, I mean, that Mother Carlson would never let go of the purse strings long enough."

"I didn't even know he was going to see Mr. Carlson about it." Bailey sounds tired all of a sudden. "But it doesn't really surprise me. It'll work itself out, I guess. Oh, by the way, I put Rex's tape in already."

"Cool. I can deal with the mess in the record room." _And mooch some food from whatever Venus might have stashed back there, _he thinks.

"Venus said if you swipe stuff from his stash again, he'll turn you upside down and shake you till payment falls out," Bailey says.

Johnny puts a hand over his heart in mock surprise. "I am offended by the very suggestion, Miss Quarters. I'll have you know I am a _thoroughly_ rule-abiding citizen, _completely_ innocent of any nefarious plans - "

"_Out!_" But Bailey smiles ever so slightly as she says that.

He salutes and heads back down the hall.

The record room is surprisingly cold. He turns the lights on to reveal the scattered piles of records and jackets stacked, oh, pretty much _everywhere_ they shouldn't be, after Rex pre-recording for the week and Venus up to God only knew what overnight.

"Erhart, Flytrap, you owe me," he mutters, and starts matching records to jackets.

Only then does it occur to him that no one had called Bailey's phone after all.


	2. Dinner, and How to Throw a Punch

She hates restaurants like Baracello's: dim lights, tinkling piano music, heat already turned up too high for Cincinnati in the fall. Unnecessary silverware. Whoever came up with the idea of multiple forks and et cetera clearly had never had to wash dishes after, she thinks sourly. Every second that passes, she feels more and more like a kid, in some ruffled dress and shiny black shoes, trying not to fidget while her parents chat with their friends or whoever her dad is trying to impress for what seems like a damn _eternity_ -

"Bailey? You awake there?" Speaking of which -

She looks up from the fish and rice on her plate. Her dad is staring at her over the little mountain of discarded mussel and clam shells on his. Carl is still focusing on prying the meat out of the crab legs he'd ordered, slurping bits out of exoskeleton just loudly enough to make her skin crawl.

"Yeah."

"You've hardly eaten anything."

"I'm just kind of preoccupied, Dad? This concert promo thing is harder than I thought it would be?" She hears the uptick at the ends of her sentences, voice falling back into the old chronic shyness patterns, and wants to kick herself for it.

Andy's voice in her head, from back around the time he'd first started working at the station: _If you have something to say, Quarters, SAY it. Declarative, not interrogative, got it?_

Dad shakes his head, but at least he's smiling. "I gotta admit, when you graduated, I never imagined it would be radio. I hear journalism, I think newspapers, y'know? You're doing well enough for yourself, though." Carl nods along with that.

"Thanks. Er, that means a lot." And it does. From Dad, anyway, she couldn't give less of a damn about what Carl thinks.

"_This_ station, on the other hand - "

_Oh, I should have KNOWN_, she thinks.

"We've been listening to it in the car ever since we got close enough to the city, and - well, honey, I just don't know about it. That morning show ... well, it'll keep you awake in the early a.m., I suppose. The DJ sounded like he was having some sort of cerebrovascular event."

"That sounds like Johnny, yeah."

"You mean the ridiculously overaged hippie with the burglar coat and the eau de marijuana?"

_Mental note_, she thinks, _tell Johnny he should wash that coat more often if even my so-square-he's-cubed father can pick up on that._ "His show is our single biggest ratings draw."

"Really?" Dad's brow furrows. "Well, it takes all kinds, I guess. Like that _odd_ little man who kept talking about hog futures. _He's_ in charge of news?"

"Les has won quite a few awards."

"So I heard. Why was there all that tape around his desk?"

"That's to mark where they're putting in walls." She's _not _going to try to explain about Les and his imaginary walls.

"Well, it's good to know WKRP's budget is big enough for walls." Dad pauses for a sip of wine. Carl goes after another crab leg - _snap_ and then _sluuurp_ \- and she clenches her fists under the table. "Y'know, your Mr. Carlson is a very agreeable fellow, but if I didn't know better I'd swear he didn't remember we were coming."

"He has a lot on his plate all the time, Dad. He seems more absent-minded than he is."

Carl pipes up: "I hear you're working with a Negro? What's that like?"

She can't help rolling her eyes at that. "Well, I don't know, the voodoo chanting gets annoying sometimes, but he makes a mean plate of fried chicken. What do you _think_ it's like, Carl? It's like working with anyone else."

"Very progressive hiring." Dad cuts in before Carl can reply. "It's not happening at that fast a rate in our line of work, but radio's probably different."

"Venus was the top DJ in the New Orleans market before Andy convinced him to come work for us." Well, it had been more complicated than that, but she isn't going to try explaining that story either. Really, she doesn't want anything except to go home.

"We didn't see him around."

"He's the evening DJ."

Dad nods. "Your receptionist was very nice. Very good-looking woman. Mr. Carlson had better watch it, or some man will snap her right up, and he'll be stuck hiring some battle-ax for a replacement."

"Jennifer's very happy working for us. I really don't think she'd quit even if she did get married."

"And how about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

_And here's the OTHER inevitable question_. She briefly considers telling the truth - how the closest thing she's had to a date in the last year and a half has been going to a few movies with Johnny - but decides against it. Dad is being annoying, but she doesn't want to risk giving _him_ a cerebrovascular event. "Not to speak of."

"What happened to that divinity student - Danny, wasn't it?"

"He dropped out and went into rehab. I think he's living in a gay commune in Maine now."

"Well, I'm sure you could find yourself a nice young man. That Mr. Travis at the station, for one. He single?"

"_Andy?_ Dad, he's my _boss_. And even if he weren't ... he's more like a big brother."

"Well, don't go brother-ing all the eligible men out of the running, honey. Even if you _were_ an only child."

"_Quasi_-only child, Uncle Frank." Carl is smiling. "At least for the time I lived with you guys."

"That's true!" Dad points at Carl in a _gotcha_ sort of gesture. "That Travis fellow reminded me a bit of you, actually. A real go-getter, polite, too. You don't see that much in a lot of younger fellows anymore."

Something cold wells up inside her at that. She keeps her voice very deliberately steady by smiling just a tiny bit: not a real smile, enough to change the shape of your mouth to keep your voice civil. Jennifer had taught her that trick. "Dad? I think I can say with about ninety-nine percent certainty that Carl and Andy are _nothing_ alike."

Carl stares at her quizzically, and then so does Dad, and she's reached the end of her patience. "Look, I really have to stop back at the station tonight, that promo stuff is fast approaching deadline? I think I'm just going to get a box?"

It takes another half-hour to extricate herself, including all the polite maneuvering needed to convince them not to give her a ride back. By the time she gets off the bus, it's full dark, sharp damp wind blowing down the street, but she doesn't mind after the overheated restaurant.

It's cold in the elevator too. She checks her watch and is distantly surprised to realize it's after 8:30 already. Venus is well into his program by now, then. Hopefully this isn't one of the nights he's decided to sneak a girl up there.

The hallway light just outside the office door is flickering fitfully again. She has to grope for the light switch in the reception area. Once she finds it, she turns up the room's speaker just enough to hear the broadcast. Venus's voice floats out, soothing:

_"Autumn is falling on the great city of Cincinnati, children, and the nights are getting longer. The great balance of darkness and light is coming into focus, and that means more time for song. This is Venus Flytrap bringing you all the right tunes for staying cozy and getting funky, here on WKRP."_ Then the opening chords of Jimi Hendrix's "Angel" start, and she turns the speaker back down, smiling.

She leaves her coat in the bullpen, and crosses the hall to the little pool of light coming from the DJ booth. Venus is alone - thankfully - setting up another record on the other turntable and whisper-singing along with Hendrix. He jumps a little when she knocks on the window, but then waves.

"Hey, B.Q.!" he says as she enters. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Taking a little refuge from a couple of guys who would've wanted me out all night." She perches on the stool against the wall.

"Yeah, Jennifer mentioned your dad and your cousin came by. Computerized data storage? Say, do they know that Mother Carlson would never do it?"

"Oh, probably Mr. Carlson just decided to be polite anyway."

"Still, it's gotta be nice to catch up with family."

"Oh, sure. We went to dinner and played almost the whole album of Quarters Family Hits. Track 1: 'Honey, I'm Proud of You,' better known by its refrain 'Because I Always Thought You Were Too Shy and Female to Have a Career.' Followed by Track 2, 'I Think Everything About Your Actual Job is Ridiculous But I Won't Say It Right Out,' and Track 3 - it's a classic oldie - 'You Should Find a Nice Man,' subtitled 'So You'll Quit Working and Settle Down.'"

Venus makes a face. "That bad, huh?"

"Get this: Dad thinks it'd be a great idea for me to date _Andy_."

Venus actually hoot-laughs at that. "You _serious?_"

She nods, and he laughs again. "Sorry, it's nothing personal about either of _you_, it's just - "

"I know."

"Angel" floats away into the stratosphere. Venus turns back to the equipment just long enough to check that the next song on the tape (the Bee Gees squeaking away about staying alive) is playing before turning the volume on the booth speakers down to almost nothing.

"So, the whole Hit Parade," he says, not really a question.

"Yeah. _And_, as an added and completely unexpected bonus, this time I get cousin Carl singing a backup harmony of 'Hey, You Know Your Dad Really Wanted a Son Like Me.'"

"That's rough."

"I'm kind of used to it. Anyway, I told them I had to come back here and work on the Enigmatic Bagels promo stuff, just so I could get away."

Venus starts going through the stack of tapes on the console. "Yeah, about that? We got the copies of their singles to start putting into the programming, and - do you know if Andy or Carlson or anyone, really, listened to this stuff beforehand?"

"I imagine someone would have. Why?"

"Well - " Venus pops a tape into the non-broadcasting console, and motions her over before handing her the headphones plugged into it. "This is one of their songs. See what you think."

She puts the headphones on, and then -

"Oh, _wow._" She stares at Venus. "It sounds like ... like someone put a bunch of bricks in a rusty cement mixer."

"Exactly. This is what they're calling 'experimental'? It's worse than when we sponsored the Scum of the Earth concert. At least _their_ songs fit some vague definition of a particular musical genre."

"Oh, I dunno, Venus. It ... does have kind of a rhythm to it?"

"Yeah, so do bricks in a cement mixer." Venus mercifully shuts the tape off.

"Do all their singles sound like that?"

"More or less. And we DJs get to fake enthusiasm for _that_ over the next few weeks. Do you have any advice?"

She shrugs. "Get some earplugs and Excedrin?"

"Picking some up as soon as I get my paycheck tomorrow." Venus starts rummaging around under the console table. "You want some cheese puffs? If a certain mutant raccoon in human form named Fever hasn't stolen them, that is."

"I told him to stay out of your stuff."

"Well, I wouldn't mind if he'd just pay me back. A man's cheese puffs must be respected." Venus sits back up and holds out an orange-stained box, and she shakes her head. "Hey, you probably could've brought the Hit Parade to a halt if you'd told your pa about you two going out."

"I wasn't quite _that_ desperate. Besides, it's not like Johnny and I were going, you know, _out_ out."

"Well, if you have to pull out the big guns at some point."

She nods. The knot in her stomach has loosened enough for her to think properly again. "Hey, Venus? When you were in Vietnam, the army taught you some self-defense stuff, right? Like, hand-to-hand fighting?"

Venus looks at her strangely. "They did indeed, Ms. Non Sequitur."

"Could you ... I mean, I'd like to learn, like, just a couple of things for self-defense?" She doesn't quite succeed in making that declarative-not-interrogative, but getting it out at all is hard enough. "Like, mainly, if someone was trying to grab you? How to throw a punch that would work?"

Venus frowns. "Things okay?"

"Yeah, I just - it's a good idea to know."

"True. Tell you what, we'll have to go out in the hall for enough space for me to show you. Let me run this tape out and put on the next set - five songs, should be long enough, especially with that ad segue. Red Wigglers bought more spots. 'Cadillac of worms,' my ass. Carlson told me he used them on his last fishing trip? He says they're not even the Yugo of worms."

"Okay."

"And get one of the couch cushions from the bullpen. I'll want a shield to do this right."

When Venus emerges from the booth ten minutes later, she's standing there with a seat cushion under her arm, feeling silly.

"All right," he says, after turning the hall lights on (and she feels even sillier for not doing that herself). "The five-minute Venus Flytrap Course on How Not to Get Clobbered. Two caveats. One: if someone's got a gun? Whole other story. At that point, in civilian life anyway, the Trap's advice is to just go along till you can get away. Two: if someone's after you, don't be afraid to get _loud_, okay? Yell and scream. Not just noise, but actually something like 'Help,' so people know."

"Got it."

"Now. Someone comes at you? Try never to end up on the ground. You can grab someone's shins and try to knock them off balance if you do, but it's better to not end up like that." Venus motions for her to hand over the cushion, and holds it against his chest. "If someone tries grabbing you from the front, you'd probably think, knee him in the crotch, right? Except a, guys expect that, and b, now you only got one leg to stand on."

He starts backing her up toward the wall, just enough false menace to make her waver a little.

"What you do at this point," he continues, "is you stomp on his _foot_ as hard as you can. Don't make it a big motion. You want economy of movement. It works really great if you're wearing heels. At least, so I've heard."

She nods.

"So try it, B.Q. Slowly, don't actually stomp me, my insurance isn't paid up."

She moves her right knee in a sort of circle and slo-mos her heel into the laces of Venus's left shoe. He has her try it again, and then with the other foot.

"Okay," he says once she's done. "_However_, if you can't do that or it's not sufficient, you punch. Thumb on the outside of your fist, arm at waist height - " he waits till she does it - "then you go for the spot right where his ribs meet." He points it out on himself, or rather on the cushion. "Solar plexus. Hit that hard enough and you can drop someone. Try it."

She stares at him. "You sure?"

"Go on. Rabbit it out, just a quick jab, you don't want to telegraph it."

She takes a deep breath and slams her fist into the cushion.

Venus stumbles backward a couple of steps, wheezing slightly. She freezes against the wall.

"That's it," he says, his words a slight gasp.

"You okay?"

"Fine." He drops the cushion and stares at her. "Remind me never to piss you off."

"Sorry."

"'S cool. Now, if this had been an actual attack on your person, the moment I stumbled would be the moment you _run_. Preferably yelling for help as you do."

"I'm good at running." _Maybe don't wear heels for a bit, though_, she thinks.

"And if someone grabs you from behind, you do the same in sort of reverse - stomp backward to get their feet, elbow backward instead of punching."

"That ... should be enough to work with." She picks up the cushion. "Hey, you want some leftovers from Baracello's? Salmon and the good kind of brown rice?"

"You don't want them?"

"I'm not that hungry. Think of it as a thank-you."

"Sure. Those cheese puffs are kind of stale." Venus opens the booth door (A Taste of Honey drifts out this time, instructing them to boogie-oogie-oogie). "You know, we should talk to Jennifer, see if that furniture-store-guy admirer of hers can get us a deal on getting a fridge up here."

"I think she could probably get us a microwave oven, at least."

Venus gives her a thumbs-up and then starts fussing with the console. She goes to put the cushion back in the bullpen.

It's quiet in the dim room. She stops, props the cushion up against the couch's back instead, and takes a few more quick hits at it.


	3. In Tequila Veritas

At 10:30, Les's news spot is over (all Johnny had caught while rummaging through the recording booth was something about a sheep in Michigan that had been taught how to dance), and Rex Erhart's pre-recorded choices of "listening perk for your daily work" are filtering into the offices.

It's becoming increasingly obvious that there are no more usable tape reels, at least not where they should be, and Erhart's taste in work-time music has just revealed itself to include Donna Summer's braying yodel about the RAAAA-di-OOO. Johnny makes a face at the console and shuffles down the hall to the storeroom. Maybe there are some extras in there.

He's scanning the disorganized shelves when he hears a faint rustling from among the boxes against the far wall. _Damn._ He considers just not looking - _it's like the tree falling in the forest: if no one spots one, do you really have mice?_

Then something moves - the big empty speaker box he racks out in sometimes if he's pulling a double - and he thinks he can guess. The open side is turned to the wall when it wasn't before, and he goes over and crouches down to look.

"That you, Moss? Landlady throw you out, or - "

The pile of blankets inside gives a startled yelp and moves, head and limbs emerging, and -

"_Bailey?_"

"Johnny? Oh, God." She sits up - as far as she can inside that thing - and starts feeling around for her glasses. He spots them by her knees and hands them to her.

"What are you doing in here?"

She crawls out and gets to her feet, blinking owlishly and smoothing her hair back. "I...came back in last night to...do some promo stuff and see Venus about something, I just - thought a nap - it's morning already?"

"It's after 10:30."

"Oh, _no._"

"Carlson and Andy have been in meetings all morning. I doubt they noticed. I think part of it is they're talking to Herb, so, you know." The look of slight panic on her face doesn't change at that. "Hey, if you wanna go home and change or whatever, I can probably cover for you."

"Can you? If they come out before I'm back? I've got a change of clothes in my car, it shouldn't take that long."

_There are two kinds of people in this world_, he thinks: _those like her who have it together enough to keep spare _anything_ in their cars, and those like you who can't get it together enough to _have_ a car. _"Sure. I've gotta talk to them anyway."

"Thanks." Just as Bailey opens the storeroom door, she turns back. "Hey, Johnny? This is gonna sound really dumb, but - what day is it?"

"Friday. Payday, actually."

"Oh. Okay." She shakes her head a little and slips out.

After he finally finds the reels (in a slightly cobwebby box that had once held Girl Scout cookies) and checks on Rex's tape (now it's Quarterflash's silvery saxophone scrawling away, maybe Rex is finally developing some taste), he goes to the lobby.

Jennifer's at the desk, reading a magazine. Her back is to the hall, of course, but even so he can see: sharp-looking green dress, perfectly coiffed blond hair, perfect posture, damn near everything perfect as usual, how are people like that even allowed to exist anyway?

He does the same thing he's done on random mornings ever since they've both been working here: tiptoeing up behind her, arms outstretched like a B-movie zombie, making a hideous face.

"Hi, Johnny," Jennifer says sweetly, without looking behind her at all.

He goes back to his usual walk. "How do you always know it's me?"

"I had radar installed when I first moved to Cincinnati. It's very helpful."

"Carlson and them still in there?" He motions at Carlson's office door.

Jennifer checks her watch. "They should be done right about - "

The big office door swings open.

"- now," Jennifer finishes, without looking up.

Johnny does a quick scan for any signs of annoyance in the group that emerges. Carlson and Andy are both looking a bit exasperated, but that's normal for after a meeting around here, and -

"Herb," he can't help saying. "You've ... really outdone yourself with that suit." And he means it: even through his sunglasses, the red and purple checkerboard of that thing is nearly eye-watering.

"It's new." Herb strolls over to stand beside Jennifer, straightening his lapels. "What's your verdict, Jenny-poo?"

Jennifer swivels her chair just enough to look Herb up and down. "Do you want my honest opinion?"

"Always." Herb winks.

"You look like a walking migraine. I'd get my money back from the tailor if I were you. Oh, Mr. Carlson? I think there might be something wrong with the lobby speaker. It made this _hideous_ noise toward the end of Johnny's show, like a tractor vomiting up its drive belt."

_Crap, that went out over the air_, Johnny thinks. "Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"Something the matter with the equipment?" Carlson frowns.

"Actually, that was a - _very_ short and accidental - clip from this band whose concert we're sponsoring."

"Really?" Jennifer stares. "Oh, dear."

"Venus left me a note about checking out the promo singles, and...hey, maybe I'm getting old, but I gotta tell you something seems _seriously_ off."

Andy looks puzzled. "Well, the agent who sent them to us - McElroy - said the Enigmatic Bagels are an 'experimental' rock fusion band. Popular thing in Europe, apparently. We're probably not that used to it."

"I think this might be more than a cultural thing, Travis."

"Admittedly, I didn't get a chance to listen to any of the singles - did you, Mr. Carlson?"

Carlson shakes his head. "Though honestly, I have to trust your judgment about pretty much anything that isn't straight-up Top 40. Sometimes not even all of that."

"Let's take a listen, then."

Once they're all in the DJ booth, Johnny turns Rex's tape down to nothing and makes sure the Bagels tape is in the right slot this time. "Okay, fellas, this one's called 'Boom Your Love,' and - "

The noise that surges out makes Carlson cover his ears.

"Oh, Lord, _that's_ them?" Andy has to raise his voice to be understood. "It sounds like someone throwing chainsaws down an elevator shaft!"

"Wait for the vocals!" Johnny shouts. High, thin screeching (a jaundiced yellow, he thinks) starts emanating from the speakers.

"Turn it off!" Carlson yells, and Johnny thinks he may never have been happier to kill a song.

Carlson cautiously takes his hands off his ears. "That was their _singer_? It sounded like Florence Foster Jenkins fighting with a pile driver."

"Who's Florence Foster Jenkins?" Herb asks.**

Andy's face seems to be stuck in wince mode. He leans out the booth door. "_Bailey!_"

"Yeah?" Bailey's voice drifts in from the bullpen. _Good, she got back without anyone noticing_, Johnny thinks.

"C'mon in here." Andy steps back into the booth. "Fever, I think you and Venus are probably right about something being off."

Bailey appears in the doorway, swathed in a blue sweater Johnny can't remember ever seeing her in before. She still looks really tired, he thinks, but not like she spent the night sleeping in a box, which by the way had just been _weird_ and -

"There might be a problem with the Enigmatic Bagels music," Andy explains. "It's - "

"Horrendous? Yeah, Venus played some of it for me."

"Get McElroy on the phone, will you? Ask him about his definition of 'experimental music,' and if these are the right tapes. And if so, why he set us up with a band that sounds like a bag of cats stuffed in a clothes dryer."

"I'll see what I can do."

"I'd do it myself, but Mr. Carlson and I are booked up today. Oh, by the way, your dad and your cousin are coming in again this afternoon."

"I think this computerized data storage thing might really be a good investment for the station," Carlson explains, as he and Andy exit the booth. "It'd make _your_ job easier as far as the billing goes, how about that?"

Bailey just nods and smiles - her thin, unenthusiastic smile - and steps aside to let them pass.

"Hey, Bailey!" Herb is straightening his lapels again. "Can't chat, got a sales meeting to get to, a meat company in fact. Meeting with meat, huh? Say, what do you think of the new suit?"

"I think sometime you _have_ to let me know who your tailor is, Herb."

Herb winks, gives them a double thumbs-up, and disappears down the hall. Bailey waits till he's out of earshot, then looks at Johnny and mutters, deadpan: "So I know _never_ to go there."

"_That's_ the truth."

"McElroy. Great. He's not that coherent at the best of times, _if_ you can even get him and not his secretary. It'll probably take all day. At least it gives me a reason to not have to chat with Dad and his junior sycophant again."

"I noticed you weren't too thrilled about them showing up."

"Let's just say there are some reasons I moved three hundred miles away. Hey, thanks for covering for me."

"No problem."

She's turning to go when he thinks: _oh, what the hell. _"Bailey? You wanna meet up somewhere once you get off work today?"

"Sure." And there's her real smile - God only knows why offering_ his_ company brings it out, but it's nice to see. "Someplace...grungy? You know, _real_."

"Well, Snooky's just had a brand new layer of filth installed. _And_ I think they may have actually bought some unexpired jars of martini olives."

"Sounds perfect. Seven o'clock?"

"Seven it is."

It's early dark, the air cold fog and heavy with impending rain, by the time he gets to Snooky's. Maybe the lousy weather is why there are relatively few people in here for Friday night. Some already fairly drunk kids are playing pool and whooping every time someone actually manages to hit the ball with a cue. A tiny elderly woman's alternately chain-smoking and banging away at one of the pinball machines. On the jukebox, the violent green and purple spikes of Linda Ronstadt declaring someone no good.

Bailey waves from the good table, in the corner opposite the bar. He sits down across from her, and notes she's already ordered: a giant basket of cheese fries, two glasses, and a pitcher of -

"Bloody Marys?"

"Oh, that would be _boring._" Given the unusual degree of relaxation in her posture and the extra brightness in her eyes, he figures she's had a couple already. "These are Bloody _Marias_. They've got tequila and some jalapeno thing instead."

"Hear, hear." He pours himself one. It's not bad, maybe could do with a little more hot sauce and a non-V8 base. "I would've bought the drinks, y'know."

"I know. But after the last couple days, I thought, just go for it." She pushes the remaining cheese fries toward him. "Guess what happened with the McElroy thing."

"The Enigmatic Bagels found a good exorcist?"

Bailey giggles and refills her glass. "Nope. I kept calling, and somebody finally checked paperwork for me? Turns out, McElroy _meant_ to set us up with an actual experimental fusion band called Chromatic Unstable. But his immediate _underling_ is kind of hard of hearing after a couple of decades in the industry without earplug use. So he set everything - contracts and all - up with the _completely_ wrong band!"

"How the hell did McElroy not notice that? He had to sign off on everything."

Bailey suddenly looks solemn. "Maybe he was too coked up. I asked to talk to him directly once we found out what the problem was? He's in the hospital. He OD'd last night."

"He gonna be okay?"

"They're not sure yet. He definitely won't be in any shape to undo any legal stuff for a while, so unless Mr. Carlson's lawyer can do something - which he probably can't - WKRP is legally obligated to go through with everything."

"Oh, _God._ A solid month of working that _noise_ into programming? To say nothing of the concert itself."

"I know." Bailey tosses back the last of her glass like it's a straight shot.

"Another reason to hate coke. I really hate coke, you know that? Unless it's the brown fizzy stuff, especially in combination with rum."

"Maybe I should've gotten that."

"Nah. A pitcher of that, and you're running to the bathroom every ten minutes." The Ronstadt rage in the background gives way to the squeaky gold sparkling of that obnoxious Madonna song that sounds like documentation of Jennifer's dating habits. At least the tequila is making him not mind it much.

"_And, _as if that wasn't enough, Mr. Carlson's gonna make a deal with my father about getting a computer." Bailey stares at her empty glass, then shrugs and refills it. "Which means both Dad and my cousin'll be hanging around into next week. Terrific."

"What's with that, anyhow? I mean, if you wanna say."

"Oh, Dad...never took anything I did that seriously...and then _Carl_ came to live with us his first year of college and _everything_ he did was 100 percent a-okay." Her voice is turning blurry, Johnny thinks, or maybe it's the tequila's effect on his own hearing. "Dad just...kinda assumed...I wasn't even _going_ to college? Shock of _his_ middle age when I got a scholarship to an out-of-state school. 'N then it was 'Honey, maybe not that field, men don't like it if it looks like you're trying to compete with 'em too much, and you know you can't take pressure.'"

"Oh, one of _those_."

"Yep. An' he keeps bugging me about a boyfriend, 'cause he really just wants me to get married and be a housewife somewhere in Crapurbia. I mean, nothing wrong with that if you _want_ it, but I want different. He's got this really particular kinda guy in mind too, y'know? Like Andy."

Johnny just manages to keep from laughing at that. He concentrates on pouring another drink instead. It's more metallic as the pitcher level lowers. Hopefully Snooky isn't using expired tomato-whatever in this. "He's not trying to match-make, is he? Should we warn Travis?"

"God, I _hope_ not. It'd be so embarrassing."

"Hey, if you really want your dad to knock it off? When he shows up on Monday, we could just...go in there and say we got engaged or something." Bailey starts sputter-laughing at that, and hey, if it makes her laugh he'll go on. "Yeah, I could wear my slobbiest clothes and call you 'Pumpkin' or something nauseating like that - "

"I want him to shut up, Johnny, not keel over dead from shock."

"Well, it helped chase Jennifer's weirdo ex off that time, so, just saying."

Bailey smiles at him, a little woozily. "You're a...really good friend, y'know that?"

"I try. Occasionally I even succeed."

"You do. Er, 'scuse me." She gets up - unsteadily - and heads for the little hall at the back where the restrooms are.

He finishes what's left of the cheese fries (mostly congealed now) and ponders whether to order more drinks. Maybe not. His tolerance isn't what it was, and Bailey's probably already passed the hangover event horizon. _Have I ever seen her drink quite this much before?_ he thinks. _Though, considering - _

That Depeche Mode song about not getting enough is playing, like thin copper wires brushing endlessly together. He sees Bailey headed back this way, passing the pool table, and suddenly taking a sharp right and heading out the side door into the alley.

He gets up and goes after her - if she's as drunk as she seems, wandering out there might not be safe.

The alley smells like garbage and piss, and the mist in the air is just short of being actual drizzle. He sees a shadow crouched down near the trash cans, and then there's the distinctive coughing and spattering sound of vomiting on pavement and he turns away till she's done.

When she reemerges into the little square of sodium-yellow light around the door, her face is tear-streaked and puffy-eyed. She puts a fist to her mouth when she sees him, then stumbles a little.

There are a couple of upturned milk crates beside the door, with cigarette butts scattered around - probably the break spot for Snooky's staff - and he gets an arm around her shoulders and steers her so they can sit down on them. She leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands.

"'M sorry," she mutters.

"It's all right. You should probably go home and just get some sleep - "

"No!" Bailey stares at him.

"Well, I'm pretty sure Snooky's gonna cut you off - "

"No, I - can't go home, not - not till they leave town, it's why I stayed at the station last night, if they come looking for me - "

_What the hell?_ "Looking for you?"

Bailey takes her glasses off, perches them on her head hairband-style, and starts angrily wiping away tears with her sweater sleeve. "I - didn't - when I moved here I didn't make sure I was unlisted, all they'd have to do is check the damn _phone book_."

Johnny's suddenly grateful for the protective tequila fuzziness, because something's starting to feel seriously wrong here. "Your family? You - have to be that worried about them knowing where you live?"

She stares at her knees, skirt dirty where she'd been kneeling on pavement. No sounds except traffic on the next street and Depeche Mode thumping away inside the bar.

"See," she finally says, very quiet. "The trick is being a boy. 'Cause when you're a boy your parents _listen_, and they let you go places without your damn _cousin_ chaperoning you, and they believe you when you say he's mean, and they - " Her breathing is ragged now. "And you would've already learned to swim, so he wouldn't be giving you lessons, and if you were a _boy_ he wouldn't be sticking his hands up your suit every chance he gets."

Johnny goes still and cold as the last few words sink into his brain.

Bailey looks over at him, blearily. "But I wasn't a boy."

Then she covers her face, hunched up on the crate, and he has no idea what to say or do, so he just puts an awkward hand on her shoulder. His brain feels like a dog chasing its tail.

"You...think your cousin might show up at your place?" he finally manages. "Is he - you think he's maybe dangerous?"

"He held a knife on me once." Her voice is tiny.

"Holy shit." Because what else exactly can you say to _that_? "Bailey, I - "

"I don't wanna go back home. If he remembers and - "

"Understood." He really hopes she's taking the worst-scenario possibility of what this scumbag might do, but - "Look, if you want, you can crash at my place and figure out what to do tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Even if they're not looking for you, maybe you shouldn't be alone tonight, after - " Dammit, that almost sounds like a poorly-worded come-on, which is _really_ bad considering what she just told him.

"Okay." Bailey rubs her eyes like a sleepy little kid, then puts her glasses back on.

"I'll get Snooky to call a cab, then."

He gets to his feet, with a vague rush of booze-dizziness, and then helps her up.

**Answer to Herb's question: Florence Foster Jenkins (1868-1944) was an alleged soprano widely regarded as possibly the worst singer in opera history.


	4. Fellow Babies

Usually if she's been drinking, she doesn't dream that night, but this time her mind conjures something: wandering through a maze of damp cement tunnels, everything smelling faintly like chlorine, that faraway feeling of _dissolving_ somehow that keeps both time and dread at just enough of a distance to know it's there. Taking turn after turn, only to keep entering the same damn room with its shiny blue tiles and fluffy green rug -

A deep _boom_ overhead startles her awake. She's not sure where she is for a moment, till flashes of lightning through windows let her clock her surroundings. Johnny's messy little shoebox of an apartment: her curled up on the narrow bed, him asleep sprawled in a heap of blankets on the floor, rain coming down hard like radio static outside. The relief at being shaken out of her own head is so great that she just goes limp and lets everything go black, this time mercifully dreamless.

Eventually she becomes aware again: a weird floatiness; dull, distant headache and nausea; a series of odd bumping and scraping sounds. She opens her eyes to thin gray light and starts to sit up, and a sudden wave of dizziness makes her revise that to just rolling over and propping herself up on her right elbow.

The window across the room is already open; the bumping and scraping is Johnny opening the one over the kitchen sink (with muffled swearing at how it sticks). It's still raining out, a dull roar. She groans and lies back down, with an arm over her eyes.

A series of fridge-and-cupboard-door sounds, and then something nudges her shoulder and she uncovers her face. Johnny, coat and hair badly sleep-rumpled, a mug in each hand, staring at her with half-open eyes.

"Hey," she manages. Her throat and sinuses feel like they're coated with dryer lint.

"Hey."

She sits up - slower this time - and he hands her a mug before sitting down cross-legged on the blanket heap. The drink is a strange shade of yellow and tastes horribly not-quite-lemon.

"What is this?"

"Gatorade. It's supposed to be good for your blood chemistry or something. Tastes like rhino piss, but it does help with hangovers."

"Oh." _Probably better to just get it over with then_, she thinks, and gulps down about half of it.

"Food-wise, I've got ... half a box of stale doughnuts and half a bag of stale corn chips." Johnny's clutching his mug in both hands and staring at it with a slightly dazed expression. The mug has a picture of Mickey Mouse flipping the bird on the side, she notes.

"How do you not have every vitamin deficiency in the world, with those habits?"

"I stave off scurvy by actually eating the pickled vegetables in martinis."

Her stomach turns over at that. "Please. Don't say 'martinis.' Or maybe even 'vegetable.' I ... don't think I want to think about food just yet."

"Me neither."

She puts the mug on the windowsill beside her. "Though...I'm not feeling _quite_ as bad as I thought I would."

"Well, you did sort of...offload a lot of what you had."

She winces. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Hey. Let he who has never overdone it and horked in an alley cast the first criticism. I sure can't." He makes a face at his mug, sets it carefully aside on the floor, and leans back on the blankets, hands behind his head - and ordinarily she'd be finding this interesting, God knows from time to time she's imagined waking up with him, but this is _light-years_ off from that and besides -

"Bailey?"

"Yeah?" She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs.

"Um...how much do you remember about what you told me last night?" And under the tiredness his voice is so quiet and kind, and some part of her wishes he'd stop or be mad at her about this whole mess or _something_ because _this_ is making something inside her want to break -

"Everything." The little waver in her own voice disgusts her. She puts her chin on her knees and stares at the paisley pattern on the blanket, all the psychedelic tadpoles.

"It was really great when he first moved in, y'know? He started college the summer I'd just gotten out of fifth grade. My parents weren't charging him rent if he'd keep an eye on me in the afternoons. They didn't like me being out alone, which was dumb when you're eleven, but - it's not like I had that many friends. He taught me how to skateboard, and how to cook on a grill without starting a fire." She has to laugh a little at that, in the way that doesn't have any humor in it. "He said I couldn't tell my parents about that stuff, they'd get mad, which they might've but maybe he was just setting up - "

A deep breath, focusing on the paisley tadpoles. The sound of rain covering everything.

"He found out I couldn't swim - not really - and Dad thought it was a great idea that he teach me, so we'd go down to the pool in the afternoons, and...the first time I thought it had to be some kind of accident, right? But - you know - not when it's happening every time. And I didn't know what to think, I'd only ever been told about creepy guys hanging around playgrounds in trenchcoats, nobody mentions your own _family - _so. Then one afternoon - "

She's suddenly shaking all over, even though it's not that cold in here.

"We came back, and I went to take a shower, and he came in and he locked the door. He had a hand behind him. And I said something like 'Hey, get out,' he came up to me and said to - to get on the floor. And I couldn't move. And it - turned out, he h-had a steak knife from the kitchen, and he - put it up against my face - " She stops. She can feel the thin cold line of metal against her right cheekbone. "So I...did what he wanted."

She doesn't even know if she wants to say the next part - she's never said it, never heard of it happening to anyone else either, and then she barely recognizes her own voice.

"He - did that a lot over the next couple months? Even after school started in fall and we weren't going swimming anymore? If my parents were gone, he'd tell me to go in there, and he always had the knife - he never held it on me again, he'd just have it and he'd put it by the sink - he - what he liked was having me lie down naked on the rug? So he could look at me, and sort of, inspect me? Say things about how I looked? Sometimes he'd - feel me up, but mostly - "

The clearest memory, sharp like glass: the fluffy green rug under her, his shape and voice beside her, staring up at the blue tiled walls and concentrating on not crying, _not crying_ dammit, waiting for this to be over -

"Sometime in October I was home sick, I had a really bad cold, and he came home from class and - he had me go in there. And that time there were towels instead? And he climbed on top of me, and - "

She can't finish that, because she can't look at that image any more, shutting the door on it now, making it go black, making it _dead air_ like they say at the station.

"It was the last time though. I got my - you know - that November, I don't know how he found out, but he never tried anything again after. Then he moved onto campus at the end of the year."

She stares out the window, at the yarn god's-eye hanging in it and the gray fuzz of rain outside, because she's _not_ going to cry, all this is embarrassing enough without that.

Johnny's voice, below her: "You want me to kill him? Or, I don't know, at least bend his spine into some new and really painful shape?"

"No. I mean, he's not worth the trouble."

"Jesus, Bailey, I'm sorry."

She's not sure what to say to that. "Maybe if I'd - I never did say no, or...fight or anything, not after that first time - "

"Okay, first of all, you were _eleven_. Second, he's got a knife, what else are you gonna do?" Now he sounds mad, and the idea that it's on her behalf is...she doesn't know what. "And _third_, can we put the blame on the scumbag, where it belongs?"

She can't figure out how to answer that, either, so she doesn't try. "I...tried to tell my dad after the last time. Not in so many words? But I said Carl was mean and he'd, well, climbed on me and I didn't like it? And Dad said I'd had a bad dream from the cold medicine." Dimly, she realizes she's picking at the cuticles on her right hand, the old nervous childhood habit. "So I just - never talked about it again."

"Would you be offended if I said your dad appears to be an all-around shithead, too?" Johnny's voice is so dryly matter-of-fact that - even considering everything - it almost makes her smile.

"No. I mean, you're not wrong." She lies back down and stares up at the slightly cobwebby ceiling. "Look, I'm...really sorry about this."

"Sorry for what?"

She manages to resist the urge to pull the blankets up over her face. "You - ask a girl out for some fun and end up with this whole...story."

"Hey. We all have our stories, all right? I mean, most people, anyhow."

"Not, like, freakish things you can't talk about for years, though."

A pause, then his voice, quieter: "Actually, that's just what I meant."

"Do you?"

"Well. Not anything as bad as what you told me. My upbringing was mostly benign neglect, I lucked out that way, but - oh, hell, Bailey, you don't wanna be hearing anything after what you were just remembering."

"'S all right. Call it quid pro quo."

"Quid what?"

"I owe you one?"

When Johnny finally answers, his voice is flat to a degree that she's only ever heard the couple of times she's seen him really stoned. "My second wife tried to murder me."

She rolls over enough to look down at him. He's staring at the ceiling, expressionless, and is it _weird_ to see him this still.

"I never actually said that before. Well, I mentioned it to Travis once, but that was the day the tornadoes happened and I doubt he registered it."

She's not sure what she'd been thinking he'd say, but this wasn't it, and she can't think of any response that isn't stupid so she just waits.

"It was when I was in Denver. A couple years after everything in L.A. went straight to hell. Pam - that was her name - really the things we had most in common were drinking a lot and smoking a lot of dope, y'know? But hey, Denver, late 70s, bring on the Rocky Mountain High. Except it turned out Pam was a cokehead too. I didn't know for sure till a while after we were married, I tried to steer her away from it, tell her, 'Hey, if you smoke the _good _stuff you'll be mellow instead,' - naive, in other words."

He closes his eyes.

"We were living in this crappy apartment. Tiny little galley kitchen, linoleum peeling up and everything. One night - we'd been drinking, and she kept disappearing into the bathroom and coming out all agitated about nothing, something rude someone said to her that day, and - I, stupidly, said I could tell she was doing lines and to knock it off.

"She started - screaming at me and she backed me into the kitchen, and then she shoved me and I was already wobbly 'cause I was kinda drunk, so I fell. And there was - we had a food processor on the counter, and she grabbed it by that stupid collapsible handle and started swinging it. The radio was playing. The Bee Gees. 'You Should Be Dancing.' And all I could think was, _I'm gonna die in this shitty kitchen, and the last thing I hear'll be the damn Bee Gees._"

Long silence, except rain and then the low whine of the heater kicking on.

"You know when something breaks your hand, your fingers going sounds just like twigs snapping? And ribs going sounds the same, but deeper. And then she hit me in the head as hard as she could. There was this - very distinct _pop_ \- and a whole lot of sparks, and black. Next thing I know I'm waking up - hours later - she was gone, she'd thrown the processor at the wall and put a big hole in the plaster. I think she thought she'd really killed me, 'cause - there was a lot of blood. You know how head wounds bleed a lot?"

She doesn't really, but she nods anyway.

"I got one of the neighbors to take me to the hospital. Told everyone I'd been in a bar fight. I doubt anyone believed me, but they didn't pry either."

"You didn't tell the cops?"

"No. There was - we had a _lot_ of dope in the apartment, I didn't want them finding that, and - I thought she might say I came after her instead. And, really, how was I supposed to explain? Especially as a guy. Tell them a five-foot-two drunken coked-up banshee tried to kill me with a Ronco Veg-o-Matic? Who'd believe that?"

"You've got a point."

He sighs and sits up, slowly. "Besides, I didn't want her to go to jail. I just wanted out. I knew someone who knew someone who had a job open at a station in Boise, so I went." He looks up at her, eyebrows raised. "Try never to drive from Denver to Boise in early winter with a concussion. It gets real trippy. Except - you ever know you're running, but at least this time maybe you're running _to_ something?"

She thinks of the ride from Chicago to Columbus, four days before the start of freshman fall semester, watching the road spool away under the bus wheels. "Yeah."

"Exactly that."

The rain isn't quite as loud now, and something about this silence is really nice, so of course she has to break it: "So, the Bee Gees, huh?"

"Yep."

"Is _that_ why you hate disco so much?"

"Well, it's more the inherent craptacularity of the entire genre, but that didn't help, no."

"I hate swimming pools. And bathing suits, steak knives - blue bathrooms. The first place I looked at to rent when I moved here was really nice, but then I saw it had a blue bathroom and I just - turned right around and kept walking right out of the building. Offended the landlady, I think."

"I've made a point of never living anywhere else where someone could box you into the kitchen." Johnny's looking at her with the most amazingly sheepish expression, and she can feel something very close to that on her own face.

"Oh, _God_, between the two of us we could probably keep some junior therapist busy for _years._"

"Nah, they'd probably just send me straight to lockup." His voice changes to some horrible pseudo-German accent: "_Zis one ees hopeless lunatic, send him to padded room straightaway! Now for ze lovely Miss Quarters, ze four sessions a week for five years should do ze trick, hm?_"

"What is that accent supposed to be?" And there's a slight twinge of being pleased that he just called her lovely, even if it's part of a joke and even considering she feels like a goblin that just crawled out of a moldy burrow.

"Early Freudian Stupor?"

She sits up and starts smoothing her hair back. She knows just what she wants to say, but she hopes she won't sound stupid, she's always afraid she sounds insincere when she tries to say things like this -

"I'm sorry your wife did that," she blurts.

"Hey. You live. But you know about that." Johnny reaches under the bed and then hands her her glasses. "You got any idea what you're gonna do till they go back home?"

"Is your phone working?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know, I seem to recall a certain morning DJ asking his coworkers if he could borrow money because he forgot to pay his phone bill for three months?"

"It's working fine now. Which reminds me, I owe Venus seventy bucks."

"I'm gonna call the nearest affordable hotels to the station, see if they have vacancies? And from what Dad said at dinner, they should be done with everything in town on Monday, so I can go home Tuesday at the latest." She looks at Johnny, who's drinking the rest of his Gatorade with a vaguely revolted look on his face. "Do you...think I'm being paranoid?"

"Maybe. But this guy hurt the hell out of you once, so - even if it just makes you feel better."

"I guess I better stop by my place anyway, just for a few minutes. I need some clothes and stuff."

"Want me to come with you? Just in case he _is_ hanging around. He'd be less likely to try anything if there's someone else there."

"I'd like that. Thanks." A thought occurs to her. "So, that Gatorade? If you just put the booze directly into it, would they, like, cancel each other out?"

"I've tried it. It just tastes like rhino piss mixed with floor cleaner."

"Too bad."

Johnny shrugs. "It's _still_ not the worst drink I've ever had."

And, at that, she's actually able to laugh, just a little.


	5. The Word Is Out

"Greetings, fellow babies, it's...nine-fifteen on a frosty Monday morning here at the WKRP studios and nursery, and for our listeners in the Clifton area, be advised that Evergreen Elementary is closed until further notice due to a little...extermination ventilation contamination situation. So for those of you whose kids will be at home all day, here's a little something from the Doctor to lighten your mood - you'll probably be needing it."

The long loping strains of Loudon Wainwright's "Dead Skunk" start filtering into the DJ booth just as the Doppler effect of running footsteps and high-pitched screeching and giggling starts coming up the hall again. Johnny sighs and makes sure the mike is shut off.

He's just about to get up when he hears Venus: "All right, you two, what are you doing?"

Some unintelligible replies in two high-pitched children's voices, and then Venus again: "Okay, this isn't a playground. Junior, _you_ go in _there_, Bunny, _you_ go in _there_."

Sounds of doors opening - the bullpen and Andy's office, if he's hearing it right - and then blessed silence, except for Wainwright croaking about the skunk in your olfactory.

Venus opens the door a moment later. "Hey, John? Why is the station Rugrat Central?"

"Oh, Herb came by - apparently there was a little raccoon infestation problem at their school? And the district decided to fumigate over the three-day weekend, except they didn't take into account that meant a lot of dead raccoons lying around the building for three days."

"Ouch."

"Yep. In the ventilation system, cafeteria, you name it. So the school's closed, Herb has a real important meeting with the Porker's Paradise people this morning, his wife's out of town and he couldn't find a sitter, so - we got guests of the small, loud variety."

Venus perches on the stool against the wall. "Well, I think I got them settled down for now."

"Thanks. Only so much of an eye I could keep on them and still run this. You used to handle a whole classroom full?"

"It's all in being just the right degree of intimidating. You got a kid, you should have some idea."

"Yeah, _kid_. One. Singular. And Laurie outgrew the running-and-screeching age a good twelve years ago. It's been an hour and a half with those two, and I'm already in desperate need of coffee and a good sedative."

"Coffee, we got. You're on your own for the sedative."

"What are you doing in this early?" Wainwright is fading out, and Johnny switches over to the ad tape. A few excruciating seconds of the Red Wigglers jingle escape before he turns it down.

"Covering for Dean later on. He's got midterms this week. Figured I'd need time to pick out some material. Plus Andy wanted to fill me in on some of the promotional stuff for this month."

"I'm covering for Rex myself later."

"Wasn't he supposed to be back last night?"

"His flight got rescheduled. Or at least that's what he told Jennifer on the phone. She swears she heard bar-party-type sounds in the background though, so who knows."

Venus makes a face. "Dunno what we expected. Rex is flakier than a bowl of Raisin Bran."

"But lacking in the same nutritional value."

"Probably true. Say, since Friday was payday? I believe there's a small matter of seventy bucks' worth of repayment?"

"I'll go over to the bank quick as soon as I get a lunch break today. Didn't have time to get much cash over the weekend, I was kinda occupied with something."

"Oh? Would this _something_ happen to be a _someone_, possibly of the female persuasion?"

"If your eyebrows go any higher, Flytrap, they'll crawl right off your head."

"I'm guessing that means a yes."

Johnny sighs. "Yes, but - it wasn't what you're thinking." The ad tape drawls out the last bit of the Shady Hills spot, and he gets up and fires up the vaguely annoying blue-hued stomping of Pink Floyd growling about education. "Can you watch this for a little bit while I get coffee? I've got three long ones set up to play back-to-back, shouldn't be a problem."

"Sure, if you make it seventy-five bucks."

"Would you settle for a bag of Cheetos?"

"Unopened?"

"Well, not _unopened_ as such, but - "

"_Seriously_, Caravella?" Venus gets the same stern look Johnny imagines he must have used with students back in the day, then laughs. "Ah, go on ahead. I've got some time to kill."

"You are a prince among carnivorous plants."

"No, _duke_. The Duke of Funk, or so the good listeners in New Orleans knew me."

"I'm giving you a field promotion."

Venus takes the chair and gives him a mock salute.

The hall is still chilly, even with the heater droning away. Andy's office door is open, and Bunny is sitting at the desk, coloring something.

The bullpen isn't much warmer. Les's teletype has started clacking, the coffeemaker is slurping and wheezing its way through a brew, and -

"Hey." Bailey waves from behind Les's desk, where she's typing something up.

"Hey."

"Why are Herb's kids here?" She gestures at Junior, snoring under a parka on the couch.

"Their school is full of dead raccoons, and he had a meeting this morning."

"Oh." Bailey looks vaguely perplexed at that.

"Where's Les?"

"On an editorial tangent, actually."

"Don't tell me. The Chinese are attempting to infiltrate the Bengals again?"

"No, something about Soviet hog production statistics. He came in, sat down, mumbled a bit, then said this deserved an editorial and he was going out to pick up some doughnuts because he had to think. On the way out he was saying something about 'The BLT: Innocent Sandwich, or Communist Tool?' So, you know, incoming."

"Unexpected Nessman editorial. _That'll_ make Andy's day."

"Andy'll probably be in a meeting. I warned Jennifer about turning off the speaker in Mr. Carlson's office, just in case."

The coffeemaker hiccups its way to a stop. The carafe is leaking again, and Johnny just manages to avoid spilling any as he pours. "At least Les is bringing doughnuts. I'm pulling a double, so's Venus, makes lunch awkward."

"I'll probably be stuck here, too. Concert stuff. I'm waiting to hear back from about ten people at the venue, I've got to talk to McElroy's office about the ticket giveaway, and the way the furnace is acting, looks like it's time for the semi-annual Nagging of the Super."

"How else would we know fall's here?" Johnny turns the speaker up just enough to check the progress of the music. Pink Floyd has given way to smooth brassiness: Dolly Parton singing "9 to 5." "Hey, you want a bag of Cheetos? Just as a supplement?"

Bailey looks at him over the rims of her glasses. "Unopened?"

"Why does everyone keep asking that?"

The phone on Bailey's desk rings, and she darts over to answer (taking care to go through the line marking Les's imaginary door, not one of his walls, Johnny notes). "WKRP, this is Bailey. Oh, Jennifer. Okay, thanks for letting me know." She must notice the questioning look on his face as she hangs up: "I...asked her to call me when my dad and Carl showed up. Said if they asked, to tell them I wasn't available - which isn't a lie, exactly."

"Yeah, hope the rest of your weekend went better?"

"Once I got to the hotel. I ordered a pizza and then passed out for about sixteen hours straight. And when I woke up, I'd figured out what to do about some of the concert copy." She rolls the page out of the typewriter and hands it to him. "Here's for you guys to read on-air."

"'Get your mind and your speakers blown with the Enigmatic Bagels_'_?"

"Well, it's not brilliant, but brilliant isn't going to happen with this one." Bailey ducks her head just a little. "It _was_ 'Come get the noise,' but I thought that sounded too much like that one Quiet Riot song, you know?"

"Did I know you listened to Quiet Riot?"

"You do now."

"Interesting."

Bailey smiles - tiredly but genuinely, he thinks. "At least a computer should make this part of things easier. I'll have to ask Andy how he talked Mother Carlson around on paying for it. Hope he didn't promise her his firstborn or anything."

"Maybe he got her a good deal on replacement shingles for her gingerbread house."

Bailey laughs and resumes her spot behind the typewriter, just as Les comes back in, hat tipped back on his head and a long cardboard box under his arm. "Hello, Johnny. Say, do either of you know when Herb will be back?"

"Should be before noon." Johnny starts edging toward the door. The last thing he wants - especially at this hour - is a first draft of a Nessman anti-Commie rant.

"I'd like to talk to him. This 'Porker's Paradise' client sounds a bit peculiar. Don't you think 'purveyors of fine meat-like products' seems a little...un-American, somehow?"

"I dunno, Les. What's more American than questionable processed food? Think about it."

Les looks down at the doughnut box, brow furrowed, and Johnny's able to slip out just as Creedence starts jangling "Bad Moon Rising" over the speaker.

Les comes flapping in with his tear sheets right as the ad segue starts at ten. He's mutter-rehearsing some opening line about "the nutritional specter," which is weird even for him, but Johnny's glad of it because it mean he can leave the booth without being roped into any conversation.

There's an unappealing sludge of coffee grounds in the bottom of his mug - _needs rinsing_, he thinks, _maybe next Andy can lean on Mother Carlson to get a bullpen coffeemaker that actually works right_. He should probably check on Herb's kids first, seeing as how he'd ended up with the de facto responsibility there.

He opens the bullpen door just enough to spot Junior still asleep on the couch (and Bailey on the phone with someone).

Andy's office door is shut. Maybe Bunny's decided to take a nap too, it _is_ a sleepy kind of day but maybe that's just him -

A man's voice from inside: "That's really pretty."

Bunny's voice, smaller and cheerful: "Yeah, it's some ducks swimming."

_What the hell? That doesn't sound like Andy - _

"Hey, how come you're not in school today?"

"There were dead raccoons."

"That's funny! What's your name?"

"Bunny. What's yours?"

"Carl."

And Johnny gets the door open as fast as he can at that.

Bunny is still sitting at the desk, coloring. Carl - sharp suit, hair combed back - has pulled a folding chair up next to the desk and is leaning over, watching her intently, and at least both his hands are visible but he's got something in one, it's the ugly pointy letter opener Herb gave Andy last Christmas, oh _shit_ -

"Hey, Bunny? Why don't you go out in the lobby? I've gotta talk to your - friend here."

"Okay, Mr. DJ!" Bunny scoops up her paper and crayons and darts out into the hall.

"Ask Jennifer if she's got extra drawing paper!" he calls after her.

Carl laughs, and _whoa,_ Johnny hasn't wanted to punch the laugh right out of someone's face this badly in _years_. "'Mr. DJ'? That's cute."

"Yeah." Johnny sets the mug down carefully on the table next to the couch. He's starting to shake. "Yeah, I hear you think kids are cute."

"Aren't they?" Carl puts the letter opener down on the desk and gets up. "You know, I actually thought about being a teacher at one point - "

"Okay, why don't you just explain this little...whatever the hell this was?"

Carl shrugs expansively, in the way that might actually be cute and disarming in a kid Bunny's age. "I was coming from the restroom, and I stopped to say hi to a nice little kid. I mean, what's the deal, buddy?"

"The _deal?_" And he finds himself stepping closer to the creep, probably not a great idea given that Carl's got several inches and about ten fewer years on him, but good decisions have never been his specialty and why start now? "The _deal_ is that you're scum, _buddy._"

"What are you talking about?" Carl is doing this wide-eyed-Bambi attempt, but something is just a little off about it, wrong around the eyes, that's usually how you can tell a faker -

Johnny lowers his voice enough so no one down the hall can hear. "Did you _really_ think Bailey would never tell anyone what you did to her?" Carl's Bambi-face freezes at that. "And now I find you shutting yourself in a room with our sales director's eight-year-old? The _only_ reason I'm not currently kicking your ass is because you're not worth getting arrested over."

"Hey, man - " Carl holds his hands up. "You're going on something _Bailey_ said? I mean - " he laughs - "Look, she was a great kid, but she'd do lots of crazy things to get attention, y'know? I guess she never outgrew that. You guys sure about her being a reporter? With needing accuracy and all - "

Johnny shoves his hands into his coat pockets - if this is going to turn into an actual fight, he wants this asshole to take the first swing, and he can't trust himself to wait otherwise. "See? That right there? An _innocent_ person's reaction would be, I don't know, something along the lines of a horrified 'no' and 'what the hell.'" His voice is getting louder. He's not sure he cares at this point.

Carl laughs again, a little hollow and brittle. "Well, I really don't know what to tell you, except like I said, she always used to do weird stuff for attention. She's got some issues, I guess that hasn't changed."

"That's how I know you're lying. You don't even _know_ her, do you? Bailey's the _least_ attention-seeking person I've ever known, like, too much so for her own good sometimes. And if she's got any issues, _you_ helped put them there, you - "

"Johnny? What are you doing?"

He follows Carl's startled stare to the doorway. Bailey's standing there with an armful of file folders, wide-eyed, and he's not sure he's ever seen her look quite this pissed off before. "Did - did I _ask_ you to say anything to him?"

"He was in here with Bunny, with the door shut."

A long, awful beat of silence, and then Bailey marches into the room, chucking the folders onto the couch and going right up to Carl. She's gone very pale, but her eyes are blazing.

"Did you hurt her?" Her voice is low and trembling.

Carl holds up his hands again and flashes that obnoxious smile. "Hey, whoa there, kiddo, I was just - "

"_Did you hurt her?_" Bailey's voice is just below a shout.

"I don't think he had time to do anything." Johnny's own voice sounds far away to him, deep in the weird hum you get in your mind when something really bad is happening.

Bailey stares at Carl. "I never - God, I never thought about - have there been others? Have you been - trying to go after other kids all this time, you son of a _bitch?_"

"You're delusional." Carl's face is starting to twist up.

"Oh, I guess you were just making _friends_ in here? Maybe reliving some memories? The special kind only perverts who grope eleven-year-old girls have - "

"_Shut up!_"

And Carl grabs Bailey by the upper arms and flings her sideways into Andy's desk. She hits it with a hollow ringing thud and staggers backward, then falls.

Johnny shouts and darts forward, but before he can grab Carl, Bailey's back up, lunging forward, stomping on Carl's foot so that he yells in pain. He stumbles, and she punches him at waist level, fist going in right under his ribs.

Carl gives a big hiccuping gasp, takes a step back, and then drops to his knees.

Bailey grabs the folding chair and brandishes it in front of her, lion-tamer-style. "Don't touch me," she growls, breathing ragged. "Don't you _ever_ fucking touch me ever again!"

Movement in the doorway: Venus and Les - they must have heard the noise - looking as frozen as Johnny feels. Then Les takes off down the hall, shouting for Andy and Carlson.

Carl is glaring up at Bailey, wheezing. "Gonna - have you arrested - "

"Well, that's funny, 'cause from what _I_ just saw, _you _attacked _her_." Johnny looks over at Venus. "That what you saw?"

"Sure looked like it to me." Venus comes in, so he's standing between Carl and the door. "You okay there, Bailey?"

Bailey nods, stiffly, still clutching the chair.

The sound of running footsteps in the hall, and then people coming in: Andy and Carlson and a bewildered-looking Mr. Quarters. Les, trailing behind, stops in the doorway.

"What's going _on_ in here?" Carlson is looking around like a puzzled bird. "We heard this _racket_ coming through the wall, and then Les came running in yelling something about a fight?"

Bailey just stares at him, so Johnny answers. "We - had reason to think Wonder Boy here was trying to creep on Bunny. We confronted him, and he attacked Bailey."

Andy turns to Carl, slow and deliberate, voice calm and drawl gone heavier, and somehow when he does that it's scarier than if he would just yell at people. "What's this about, Carl?"

"It's not _about_ anything!" Mr. Quarters is staying still - barely - but his voice is jumping with agitation. "Look, I don't know where you got the idea, but Carl would never - "

"Dad?" Bailey's voice is shaky but clear. "Carl would."

"_What?_" And Johnny could swear Mr. Quarters almost looks offended.

"He would. Because he did."

"Some little _kid?_ Honey, he couldn't have - "

"Don't you remember when I was eleven? And I tried to tell you he'd been - grabbing me and climbing on me - and he was mean, and - what'd you think I _meant?_"

Mr. Quarters looks at Bailey, then at Carl, then back. "Well - I mean, you - you were, y'know, an early bloomer, people can get confused, crossed signals - "

"_Crossed signals?_" Bailey's voice wavers horribly, and she takes a deep breath. "That - _that's_ what you told yourself so you wouldn't have to notice your nephew was raping your daughter? And then you brought him here, to - " She goes quiet, shaking, blinking hard.

There's a terrible gray hush that seems drawn-out, rubber-band-like, and then Mr. Quarters' voice, low: "Kiddo - "

"Sir?" Andy cuts in, deadly quiet, face expressionless the way he only gets when he's furious. "I think you'd better get the hell on out of here." He glances down at Carl. "Both of you."

Mr. Quarters sputters a bit, then turns away to help Carl up.

"I'll show you out." Carlson looks a little sick. "And, Mr. Quarters? The deal's off. Don't contact us again." He moves aside so they can go through the door, then follows. Les gawks wordlessly, then heads off after them.

"Dead air, _shit_," Venus says suddenly, and scrambles out toward the DJ booth.

"You two okay?" Andy asks, and Johnny's pretty sure they haven't had this much of a not-okay day here in maybe ever, but he just nods.

Bailey's just standing there, and as Andy goes behind his desk for the phone, Johnny is finally able to move and go over to her. She's still holding on to the chair, knuckles white, shivering, and she doesn't really look at him when he's in front of her - it's more like she's looking through him.

Johnny keeps his voice low and steady, the exact opposite of how he feels: "Bailey? Hey, you in there?" He tugs on the chair, just a bit, and her grip loosens enough that he can slip it out of her hands.

Only then does she blink and sag back against the desk, with a little sigh, and he puts the chair down and she slumps into it.

Andy, distant in the hum: "Hey, Jennifer? Our - guests - are leaving, can you call the first floor desk and have them trespassed from the building? Yeah. Yeah, everyone's okay back here. I'll explain later. Oh, and, hey, when Herb shows up..."

Grinding and drumming sounds drift in from the hall - _why_ did it have to be the Enigmatic Bagels Venus put on? It was probably the closest record to hand - and Johnny almost doesn't hear Bailey's voice: "I never said it out loud before."

He sits down on the floor so he can understand her, and she's still looking kind of spaced-out but at least now she seems _present._ "Said what?"

"That - word. I never - called it what it was before. It feels weird." A shaky laugh. "_I_ feel weird."

"Breathe a bit."

"Dad'll - " Bailey shakes her head. "He'll probably never forgive me."

"You're not the one who should be asking for that."

And she just looks at her feet, visibly trying not to cry, and he just looks at the elderly stained carpet because he has no idea what else to say.


	6. In Mind For Tonight

"And finally, temperatures in the greater Cincinnati area are expected to drop into the upper 30s tonight, with more wind and rain in the early morning hours. That's all for this Thursday. For Les Nessman, this is Bailey Quarters saying good night, and may the good news be yours."

She hits the switch for the exit clip, and "_Cincinnati's window to the world..._" booms from the speakers before she manages to turn it down to a tolerable level.

There's a tapping on the window behind her, and then Venus comes in, a stack of records in one arm. He waves at her with his free hand, then gives the console a bemused look as the news-segment-ending trumpets fade into a Porker's Paradise ad. "Man, I can never quite figure out what Les was thinking with that."

"Delusions of Cronkite, I guess." She relinquishes the chair to Venus, who starts shuffling through the records. "You know, I think I'll sneak into the recording booth sometime and make my _own_ grandiose intro and exit for my spots. Why should Les get to have all the fun?"

"Indubitably. Hey, you got a minute?"

"Sure." Whatever this is, she hopes it doesn't take too long. She's still trying to catch up on the lost sleep from last week.

Venus swivels the chair around, and his expression is quizzical enough that she asks: "What is it? You've got that _look_ on your face."

"What look?"

"The one that means it's not good?"

Venus sighs. "Look, Bailey, there's no easy way to say what I've gotta say, so I'm just gonna go ahead and say it, okay?"

"Say away." She sits down on the stool - clearly this _might_ take a little while.

"You know I was a teacher, right?"

"Yeah?"

"And my teaching license is actually still good for another couple years. And when you have a teaching license, there are - certain things - that if you know they happened to a kid, even if - oh, hell, you're the one with the journalism degree, you know what a mandated reporter is, right?"

"Yeah, why - _oh._"

Venus ducks his head a little. "I talked to a friend of mine? She's a paralegal. She's checking into whether I'm legally obligated to report what I know about your cousin to the cops where he's living now. If I am - they wouldn't be able to file charges, what happened with you was too long ago, and he didn't actually _do_ anything to Bunny - thank God - so they'd just make a record of it."

She just nods, because she's not sure what to say. She'd never thought about this.

"And the thing is, with his history, if he's still trying to be alone with kids, I think that might be a concern, y'know?"

"I know." She's been trying not to think about that for the past few days.

"So - " Venus pauses to turn the volume up just long enough to check the progress of the ads. "If I do have to report? I could leave your name out of it, but - would you want to be involved? They might take it more seriously if they heard from you as part of it."

She finds herself staring down at her hands, twisting nervously in her lap. "I - it might be a good idea to say something, regardless?" She pauses for a deep breath, and thinks: _declarative, not interrogative._ "I mean, I can give you the info you'd need to contact the right people."

"That's what I've been thinking." Venus starts setting up records on the turntables.

"Talking to them myself...look, let me think about it, and I'll get back to you." She's not sure she _could_ actually talk to some stranger about any details, and that might look worse, but -

"Sure. My friend's probably not gonna know anything concrete till Monday, anyway. 'Scuse me a sec." He takes the mike, voice gone extra-smooth and smiling: "Greetings, children of Cincinnati. The night is still, the leaves and the temperatures are falling, and Venus...is rising. Venus Flytrap here, bringing you all the cool tunes for a cool Thursday evening. Starting you off with a little advice from an underappreciated Zen master: sometimes, you gotta get yourself lively. Bob Marley, here on WKRP."

He fires up the left turntable, and a few seconds of "Lively Up Yourself" escape before he turns the sound down. "Okay, that's set. Look, I just wanted to say - with what happened, and...your dad clearly being no help - well, if you ever need to talk to someone, you know my number."

"Thanks." Now she's smiling, which feels a little weird because she hasn't done it much since Monday, so this has to be a good sign, right?

"Beautiful punch you laid on that jerk, by the way."

"I owe you thanks for that, too."

Venus smiles. "I like to keep myself useful. Oh, I ran into Johnny on the way in - he was looking for you. I think he went in the bullpen."

"It's after six. What's he doing here?"

"Sometimes I doubt even _he_ knows."

"True. Have a good night, Venus."

"Likewise." He gives her a little salute, and she gives him a friendly tap on the shoulder before slipping out.

The bullpen is quiet, except for the faint hum of traffic on the street far below. Johnny's asleep at the spare desk, huddled in his coat, head buried in folded arms. She nudges his shoulder, and he sits up suddenly, with a startled squawk.

"Hello to you too," she says.

"Huh? Oh, Bailey. I was lookin' for you." His voice is blurred with fatigue.

"So I heard."

"Yeah. Um - " He takes his sunglasses off and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment. "Are you going straight home from here?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Could you drop me off at my place on the way? The last time I got on a bus when I was this tired, I fell asleep and ended up over in Covington."

"Sure. I've got a press release to finish typing up first. Had to stop to do the news spot." She sits back down at Les's desk and starts tapping away.

"Thanks. I tried to find you at lunch? But Les said you were out with Jennifer." Johnny tips the chair back and wedges his knees against the edge of the desk.

"She said she wanted to take me for a 'Punch-The-Jerk Appreciation Lunch.' I mean, Andy told her a little about what happened, and then Herb said a few things later. Well, more _yelled_ than _said_ \- "

"Yeah, I think he would've dismembered Wonder Boy without benefit of a sharp object."

She sighs. "So. She knows everything now. She said she wished she'd been there to punch Carl too. And that she would've paid good money to see us pull the same pretend-to-be-together scam on my dad that you two pulled on T.J." Of course, Jennifer had also said that kissing Johnny had been like kissing an upholstery brush because of the mustache, but he probably doesn't need to know that part.

"Too bad. We could've picked up some extra cash."

"What are you doing here this late? Didn't you just have the morning today?"

"Pre-recording some stuff for over Thanksgiving weekend."

"I thought you were here over Thanksgiving."

"So did I, but - Laurie called last night and invited me out there for a few days. Said about all she could offer was some turkey sandwiches and watching that Charlie Brown special on TV, but if I wanted to hang out - so, obviously."

"Of course. How's she doing?"

"Better. She got a steady job, sort of. You know what I got to be thankful for this year? She got rid of that boyfriend. Talk about losing a hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight. I was afraid she'd marry him and have to spend the next couple years digging out of it. Anyway, I won't be able to get coverage for everything with everyone going out of town, so I did some Doctor in a Can."

"You could call Moss for some of it. I doubt he's going home, considering his situation."

Johnny nods slowly. "True. Can you imagine a Steiger family gathering? Extra-down-home New England? Like that painting of the old couple with the pitchfork."

"Yeah, somehow I don't think 'clammy' is an adjective you ever want applied to Thanksgiving dinner."

"I bet they'd eat, I dunno, calamari or something."

"Well, eel was one of the dishes at the original Thanksgiving, so maybe that." She finishes typing and rolls the paper out.

"I'll have to call him, if he's got phone service up yet in whatever...submerged cave or what-have-you he's living in."

She goes to the coat rack for her overcoat. "Well, I'll be here that weekend, so if you need someone to run tapes - "

"You're not going home?"

_Damn, why does he have to ask?_ She spots his knit hat on top of the rack and tosses it to him. "After what happened...I won't be welcome with my dad's family."

Johnny pulls the hat down over his ears and stares at her. "That's...really shitty."

"It is." She checks her pockets - keys, wallet, got it. "I _could_ go see my mom's family, but it hasn't been the same since she died. And I don't really want to be around people who are getting drunk and bringing up grudges from fifteen years ago. You know my Aunt Deedee still hasn't forgiven me for breaking her sewing machine when I was nine?"

"Understood."

"So I told Les I'd cover for him Thursday and Friday, that way he can go see his mom. And I don't mind coming in on the other two days."

"I'd appreciate it." Johnny gets up - slowly - and follows her to the door.

The hallway is dim except for the little pool of light from the DJ booth. Venus is swaying along with whatever's playing, lip-syncing the words. He waves at them as they pass.

She stops to leave the press release on Andy's desk, then peeks into the other rooms - recording booth, storeroom, record room - to be sure the lights are off. "I was on the phone with the Enigmatic Bagels this afternoon. Like, the actual band? They seem nice enough, even if they can't sing."

"Good. Don't know about you, but I'd rather not have to babysit any more - _musical guests_ \- while they get bombed and trash hotel rooms."

"Seconded." Everything's shut down for the night in the lobby.

"The concert itself is enough to deal with. You know I'll end up emceeing it, too."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, Venus keeps ducking the question, can't blame him. Rex doesn't know anything about that kind of music, Dean has zero experience, and let's face it, Moss has the personality of a wet towel."

"You should ask for a bonus, then."

"Oh, I will. I mean, I like to think I at least have the personality of a _dry_ towel."

They go out the main office door. The hallway leading to the elevator is dim, except for the light right over them, still flickering irritably like a child's intermittent whine.

"I see they still haven't fixed that," she mutters.

"Oh, they'll get to it." Johnny slouches against the wall, hands in his coat pockets. "The same time they get to the furnace, roughly around February."

She rattles the door to be sure it locked behind them. "Johnny? I...never thanked you for all your help this past week."

"Hey. I do what I can." He gives her a tired smile and a sheepish little shrug, and is it _disconcerting_ when he does that, but in a good way and they're still looking at each other and -

If someone had asked what she had in mind for tonight, her answer would have included "going home, eating the leftover pasta salad in the fridge, maybe watching _Taxi_." It _wouldn't_ have included "kissing Johnny Caravella under this stupid flickering light," but as far as Unexpected Events of The Last Couple Weeks go, it's sure terrific having a nice one for a change.

They pull apart, and he's staring at her with this goofy little grin and she can tell she's blushing horribly, _say something, Quarters, say __anything__ \- _

"That wasn't like an upholstery brush at all," she blurts.

"_Huh?_"

"Something Jennifer - " She shakes her head a little. "Never mind."

"If you say so." His voice is just a little wobbly.

She checks the door one last time, then turns back to him. "Come on. Let's get out of here."


End file.
